“Here,” I said, plopping my laptop down in front of my then-girlfriend. “Take this quiz.”

She looked at the screen—“Which Character From The L Word Are You?”—and then back at me. “Why?”

“Because I think we should watch this show.”

She blinked.

“And I thought it would be more fun if we knew which characters we might relate to the most from the beginning,” I said. Duh.

It was fall 2009. The L Word, which had premiered on Showtime in 2004, had already run its course, ending in spring 2009 after six seasons. Neither my girlfriend nor I had ever seen an episode. But suddenly, doing so felt like a necessary rite of passage.

Having been involved in queer communities since my youth, I'd known about the show for years and had grown tired of all the references I didn't quite get. Its heyday happened when I was in college, and if you assume I had access to Showtime in my dorm, you have another thing coming. But now with a girlfriend who had just come out, had never had a relationship with another woman before, and was curious what lesbian identity was all about, watching The L Word felt like an experience we should have together.

The L Word follows a close-knit group of friends in Los Angeles through the trials and tribulations of being queer in their 20s and 30s.

Though many characters come and go over its six seasons, the core group starts with Bette (a high-powered and high-anxiety art center director), Tina (Bette's partner, who practically has no story line not directly tied to Bette until late in the show), Shane (an androgynous heartbreaker), Dana (a closeted tennis player), Alice (a quirky journalist), and Jenny (a writer, brand new to the neighborhood).

Armed with the quiz results (my girlfriend got Shane; I got Jenny, but it turns out I’m much more of a Bette), we began our foray into The L Word's version of West Hollywood. I was expecting, as the band Betty sings in the show's theme song, talking, laughing, loving, breathing, fighting, fucking, crying, drinking. The show provided it all in spades. (Any time I tried to sing along with Betty's rapid-fire lyrics, I would just start yelling verbs that didn't quite jibe with the show: jumping, screaming, running, swimming. I assume we all did. It’s the way that we live and love, after all.)

What I wasn’t expecting, even in queer media, was to feel seen.

I’ve known myself to be bisexual (or pansexual or queer; I’m cool with all three labels) from the very beginning. I can’t remember ever not being attracted to people regardless of gender. I can date very specific thoughts about my initial confusion—Do I like boys, or do I like girls? Can I like both? Is that a thing?—as far back as third grade. A friend of mine once wanted to play-kiss me, and I had a visceral negative reaction to the idea. “You want to pretend I’m a boy,” I told her, “and I just want us to be two girls.” She threw an accusation at me, claiming I was gay, a word I later had to ask my dad to define. But no. That wasn’t it. I had crushes on boys, too.

It wasn’t until seventh grade that the word bisexuality made its way into my lexicon, blessing me with the language to describe my feelings. We can argue against the usefulness of labels all day, but when you spend 13 years unsure of how you fit into the dichotomous world around you, a label is an affirmation that you’re not alone. Bisexuality, as a concept, was a godsend for me.

Unfortunately, it took many more years for me to work through the stigma attached to how that word leads others to perceive me. The truth is, bisexual people are stereotyped from all angles: We’re greedy, we’re cheaters, we’re sex-obsessed, we’re confused. Most people that I dated in high school and college were afraid I was passing through a phase, that I would eventually have to pick a side, and that it might not be theirs.

Even when I had the language to describe my experience, I found myself continually in the position to defend it, including within the queer community, where I was often seen as an outsider. Without a role model or a pop culture example to point to, most people around me invalidated my identity.

Then came Alice Pieszecki, the show's resident bisexual, who affirmed a lot of my experiences.

Well, to be precise, Alice was the show's resident bisexual until she decided to identify as a lesbian. Although Alice means a lot to me, I know The L Wordscrewed up with her character. I absolutely believe that sexuality is fluid (and experience it that way myself). I also believe that Alice's transition from bisexual to lesbian is valid. But it was a mistake for the show's production team to take away the one proud bisexual character, especially without really delving into that part of Alice's journey.

I don't remember anything that explained Alice's change in identity. In episode 10 of season three, while she's visiting Dana in the hospital, Alice tells her, "You're right. Bisexuality is gross. I see it now." That's the first time she says something related to her no longer identifying as bisexual. There was a lot of room there to explore her romantic and sexual evolution, but the show's creators ignored it.

Even with Alice eventually identifying as a lesbian, her start as a bisexual woman was exhilarating for me. While other characters had sexual and romantic experiences with people of varying gender identities and expressions, Alice was the only one who actually called herself bisexual and defended herself against stereotypes. And through her storylines, which often involved wrestling with blatant bisexual stigma, Alice's presence addressed the unique struggles bisexual women face.

Like me, Alice was often accused of being straight, as though she were infiltrating queer spaces with her proximity to heterosexuality.

There's a scene in season two when Alice, Dana, and Tonya (a secondary character) are visiting a sex toy shop. Tonya waves a penis-shaped chocolate lollipop at Alice, joking aggressively, “I guess this is a little more up your alley, isn’t it, Alice?” Alice grabs a breast-shaped lollipop, saying, "Actually, Tonya, this might be a little more up my alley." They bicker for a bit, then Dana steps in. It seems like she's going to stick up for her friend. Instead, she holds both lollipops up to Alice, asking her, "Which one would you rather put your mouth on?"

Later in the show, when Alice and Dana are dating and Alice suggests the use of a strap-on during sex, Dana meets the option with distrust and derision. “Is it a bisexual thing?" she asks. "You trying to have your cake and eat your pussy, too?”

Encounters like this are blatant attacks on Alice's bisexuality, forcing her under a spotlight to prove her identity time and time again. Unfortunately, this is something bisexual people often have to contend with. Seeing Alice deal with this doubt that bisexuality can actually exist—let alone be an identity worthy of embracing—echoed my own decades of experience. It finally made me feel less alone. In a world where media almost never gives us bisexual characters, Alice gave me, at least briefly, a reflection of myself.

When Showtime announced last Tuesday that The L Word is getting a reboot, many thoughts flooded my mind: After a tumultuous relationship, will Bette and Tina be married? Will Shane somehow make up for leaving her love, Carmen, at the altar? For Christ’s sake, will we find out who killed Jenny? (Yes, in a hugely controversial move, the show veered into murder-mystery territory in the end.)

But mostly, I was filled with a sense of warmth and memories of marathoning the show, cuddled up with my ex-girlfriend on my tiny couch in my first apartment, finally feeling like I belonged.

Melissa A. Fabello is a feminist writer and speaker who covers issues related to body politics and beauty culture. She is a doctoral candidate in Widener University’s Human Sexuality Studies program, where her research looks at how women with anorexia nervosa make meaning of their experiences with sensuality. Learn more about her work on her website, and follow her on Twitter and Instagram @fyeahmfabello.